


Chirping and Howling

by the_cowgirl_bookworm



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_cowgirl_bookworm/pseuds/the_cowgirl_bookworm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They rode out together on the night the Blackwater burned. A little bird that flew above her loyal hound on his shadow horse. Through flowers and deserts, they will roam, searching for a safe haven. A lion, sick and twisted, plots from its iron chair while a mockingbird sends out wave after wave of hunters to bring them back. SanSan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa I

Sansa ran back to her room, a wraith running through the halls of the Red Keep. The room suddenly seemed so small, the smell of smoke hanging thick in the air. Smoke from fires, smoke from wildfire, smoke from burning men. The whole castle seemed to be full of smoke, and blood and screams. She could smell the blood, leaving a metal taste in her mouth. I don't want this, I don't want to be here. She threw herself down on her bed, huddling small and holding her aching belly. The doll her father had gave her, that she had hated all those days ago, was tucked under her pillow. She could feel it, curling her fingers around it.

"It won't bring him back." A voice rasped from the shadows. Sansa gave a little squeak, jerking up to a sitting position. He was lit all in green, and orange and yellow that danced over his face. They caressed where they had melted once, whispered where they had roared. His plate was stained, blood crusted and rust red. He stood, and Sansa was reminded of how tall he was. "He's gone. Just like me."

"You're not, you're standing here." Sansa whispered, hugging the doll closer.

"I will be soon enough. Had enough of this damn fire, those fucking burning men. No fire god is going to get me." He stood, walking to the bed. "I could take you with me. I could keep you safe. They're all afraid of me, no one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them."

"You can just leave? But, the battle..." Sansa looked up at him.

"I've had enough of fighting the Lannister's battles. They gave me this damn cloak," He shook the white cloak that hung behind him, pink now, and scarlet and singed. "It will get me out, and then it can go fuck itself." She looked at his face, the way the scars rippled as he talked. It was a harsh spectacle, a morbid one. "And you can go with me, little bird. It'll be easier if you want it, harder if you don't. I'm taking you either way."

"Why?"

"Because one day that bastard Joffrey won't be satisfied with beating you, he'll use you for other acts. I won't let that happen."

Sansa looked up at him, and she was struck by what he was saying. But really, what did she expect? Any bit of kindness, and shred of humanity that had found its way to her in King's Landing, had been from him. He watched over her, protecting her in his way. She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn't notice when he brushed his mailed hand against her hair, resting it on her shoulder. She looked blankly at it before responding. "Please, please take me with you."

"Then grab your little doll, but don't think I'll carry it for you." Sandor Clegane growled, turning around. His arm snaked around though, pushing her in front of him. He didn't stop for much, snarling when he spotted shadows against a far wall. The only place he stopped was the kitchen, grabbing a sack from some wall. Sansa watched as he pushed loaves of bread, cheese, smoked meat and skins of wine and water into the bag. The cooks had long since abandoned the kitchens, running to their families or for their lives. He pushed the sack into her hands, and when she protested at its weight he growled. "Can't swing my sword if I'm carrying that."

From the kitchens they went to the stables, where Sansa wanted to drop the sack and press her hands over her ears. All she could hear was the screaming of horses, horses driven mad by the smoke and the fire. It was deserted, horses not needed for the defense of the wall. But still, they screamed all the same. The Hound was unaffected, making his way to a stall and bringing out a large black courser. The horse was rolling its eyes, and she could see the whites, but it seemed more interested in leaving. As soon as the saddle was on, the Hound lifted her up, then clambered up behind her.

"Easy, Stranger." He whispered, calming the horse. Stranger quickly took off at a lope out of King's Landing, and as Sansa felt the rolling muscles of the horse underneath her, it finally struck her. She was leaving, she was fleeing King's Landing. The knight who rescued her wasn't some kind of hero, but she had learned there weren't any heroes. There were just men, and more men were bad than good. She leaned back slightly, feeling the solid metal behind her, the strong arms on either side. The horse beneath her seemed to fly, leaving the city through a gate and turning towards the wood.

They flew, and left the fire behind.


	2. Sandor I

Sandor hadn't planned on fleeing King's Landing that night. He had planned to get raging drunk, to let the bloodlust overwhelm him, to slaughter Stannis Baratheon's men underneath the walls. He knew the dwarf was using wildfire, the blasted Imp was so proud of that fact. Sandor had sat there, snorted, and thought to himself that if they were following that fire priestess, then they should burn. Let Stannis's men learn what it was like.

He didn't expect his own men to burn.

He went through the gate, sword in hand and blood rushing in his head. Gods, but it felt good to kill. It was what he was good at, the killing. He knew when he stepped into the mud, that no sword would strike him down. And not a one did. He killed men, cut open helms, stabbed through quilted armor and mail. Swords skittered off his armor, and he almost felt like he should sing. Should scream out that all these men should run for there was no way in the seven hells that he was dying by a blade that night.

And then came the fire.

Men staggered out of boats, screaming as their flesh melted. Their clothing caught, fire arrows rained down from the walls, and they burned. His own men, they burned. The fucking archers couldn't see they were shooting their own men. And all he could see was flames, the bay on fire and the flames seemed to come after him. Every man that staggered towards the walls, burning, was Gregor, holding his face down to the coals again. And all he could hear was himself, years ago, screaming as his brother remained silent, not even voicing his rage, his pleasure. He had wandered back inside the walls, desperate for wine to drown those memories like it had before.

Then that fucking dwarf had sneered at him, demanding him to go back out. Even that bastard Joffrey had demanded him to go out, to go get himself killed in the fire. Sandor had left them with some choice words, stalking back to the castle. Let them all burn, the queen, the Imp, the fucking king himself. But not her, she didn't deserve that fate. The little bird was too good for this place, too good for all the scheming and backstabbing of King's Landing. Sansa Stark was too innocent, too pure.

Too good for the fire.

He would have taken her if she didn't come willingly. Taken her away from this place, like he had from the rapers. She had clung to him then, blood covered and cruel as he had been that day. He would have taken her from her rooms, tying her to his horse and riding away if she resisted. But she had come, was sitting in front of him as he guided Stranger away from the city. The horse knew what he wanted, he could tie the two of them to the saddle, fall asleep, and the horse would get them away.

Away from the fire.

He took them to the kingswood, hiding in the trees. From the flames and the moonlight he could see the paths that had been pressed down into the forest floor, back when that fat bastard Robert came out here hunting. Man got fat from all that power. From those paths, deer tracks picked their way through the forest. He set Stranger onto one of them, taking them farther into the forest. The little bird gasped a little as the forest darkened, leaning back against him. He tightened his arms.

"Easy little bird, the forest'll keep us for now." He grunted, setting Stranger off at a trot. The destrier made his way through the shadows, almost becoming part of them. The Hound grunted at that. A masterless dog, a shadowy horse, and a bird finally freed from her cage, making their way through the kingswood. Maybe they'd write a fucking song about them.

The hound and the bird  
Rode to the wood  
Leaving the king in disgrace  
King Joffrey was dashed  
And everyone laughed  
When he came out with shit on his face

Sandor almost chuckled.

The path soon ended at a small river, the water clear and clean. He dismounted there, helping Sansa down from the saddle. She clung to him as feeling returned to her legs, and he held her until she could stand on her own. He left her to stand as he hobbled Stranger, letting the horse crop grass as he wanted. Stranger's saddlebags bulged with gold, the winnings from the tourney. It had been the safest place for it in King's Landing, his horse would kill any man but him. The gold would serve them well enough, once it was safe enough to head to some small village. He pulled the sack of food from his saddle, passing her a hunk of bread, cheese, and a bit of meat. He grabbed some for himself, washing it down with wine. The wine was more sweet than sour, but Sandor could care less. He was in a hurry, anything would work.

"Here," He rasped, passing her the skin. She sipped it, then made a face. He handed her the water skin, and watched her mix it. She seemed to prefer it now, watered down. "Best get some sleep tonight. We'll have to make it through the wood, then find a town and a ship."

"Can't we go to the North?" She asked, nibbling on the hunk of bread.

"You want to get raped by one of your brother's raiding parties?" Sandor didn't mice his words. He knew war, and men lost themselves in it. "Heading south's out best bet. Follow the Blue Byrn to the Mander. Pass through Highgarden, then maybe down to Dorne, through the Marches. Martells haven't declared a side yet, we could hide out in Sunspear. If they do join in, we catch a ship to the Free Cities. It's safer in Essos than here, but I'll bring you back when the war's done."

"Robb wouldn't let his men rape me." She muttered, returning to her meal.

"You ever been in a war? You ever raid a village?" He growled. "Man doesn't care if his commanding officer doesn't want it. If he sees something that's got tits when his blood is up, suddenly it seems better to do what he wants and ask forgiveness later."

"Not you." She whispered. Sandor pretended he didn't hear, downing the rest of the wine. Sliding his sword belt off, he laid out on the ground, watching Sansa out of the corner of his eye. She watched him, still sitting. "Are there no blankets?"

"I took what was necessary. Food, water, wine. Can't pack a whole damn castle on my horse." He grunted, patting his sword to make sure it was beside him. She ducked her head, laying down where she was. He saw her shiver, the cold wind from the wood biting through the thin silk of her dress. He rolled over, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close. She whimpered, but he held her there. "Gods, I can't let you freeze, little bird. You're safe, go to sleep."


	3. Sansa II

Sansa gradually became aware of the world. First, she could feel the light in front of her eyes, winking and dancing. Come Sansa, enough time for sleep later. She opened her eyes, blinking to get them adjusted to the green light seeping through the trees. Trees? It all came back to her in a rush, the battle, her flight from King's Landing. What confirmed it was the Hound's arm around her, but he quickly moved it once he saw she was awake. She scrambled away, unsure of herself.

He just shrugged. "You were cold, I was warm." She watched as he lumbered to his feet, walked to a tree back in the brush, and pissed on it. She was suddenly aware that she needed to do the same, but she didn't know where. The Hound came back, chuckling slightly. "Anywhere you want. Find a bush and squat." He turned to the horse, checking the tack. Sansa did as he said, blushing furiously as she did so. When she came back, he lifted her up into the saddle, and they were off.

After a while, she turned to him. "How do you know which way we're going?"

"The sun, little bird." He grunted. "Rises in the east, sets in the west. Follow where it sets, turn a little to your left and you've got south." The travelled most of the day in the wood. For a time they'd ride, then Sandor would slide off the horse and walk, leaving her sitting. He repeated this process throughout the day, until they found a fallen tree and he decided to make camp.

She was glad for his decision. Her thighs ached, she was tired, and her stomach had started growling hours ago. Sandor looked around the campsite, bringing back some twigs and leaves. She watched him as he considered a piece of wood, scraping it with his thumb. He wasn't a cruel man, not usually. Sometimes he would snap at her when she asked a question, but he usually just remained quiet. He tossed the wood to the ground, holding out a pice of flint and steel to her.

"Start a fire, I've got to piss." He grunted. She took the flint in her hands, unsure of what to do. She had seen other people start fires, they always seemed to strike the steel against the flint. She arranged the wood, hoping it would catch. She struck the steel to the flint, scattering sparks and slashing her thumb. She gave a little cry, the fire forgotten and held her hand to her chest. It was bleeding, and she cradled it, rocking slightly. Sandor was there in an instant, gently pulling her hand to him.

"It hurts." She whimpered.

"It's not that bad." He replied, dropping her hand and moving to the horse. He pulled his soiled white cloak from where he had put it, and ripped off a section of cleaner cloth. He dabbed a little wine on the end, then pressed it to the cut. She gasped, but didn't say anything. After that he wrapped a scrap of it around her thumb, then grabbed the flint himself. "Keep your fingers away from the steel. And strike it downwards, like this." He said, bringing the steel to the flint. Sparks soared, catching the dry grass and leaves. Sandor placed a couple of twigs over it, letting them catch.

Sansa watched as he built the fire, keeping his hands well away from any jumping flames. "Thank you."

"Should have known you'd hurt yourself, always had a bunch of servants lightin' your fires for you." He turned. "It's different when you're alone."

"Were you always alone?"

He was silent, and she thought he was angry before he finally spoke. "No, little bird. I had a family, once, but that's done with. Now, get the food." She made her way over to where he had dropped the sack, back when he had gotten his cloak. She pulled out their food, handing him a portion. He ate it ravenously, drinking wine when he was finished. She nibbled at hers, but the bread was hard, the cheese was sharp, and the meat was tough. He watched as she tried to tear her food into smaller bits. "Would you go back?" He asked, the fire lighting the scarred side of his face.

It showed the valleys, the scars that rose and fell. It was a whole range of the strange, the taboo. Scars were meant to be hidden, to be shunned by the world. They were meant to be brought out when men were in their cups and needed stories to tell. But here were scars where they had no gallant story to tell, no embarrassing story from childhood. They were marks of pain, of twisted pleasure and hatred. Sansa felt her mouth open a bit before she asked. "What?"

"Back to the castle, feasts and silks and not having to piss in the ground. All the servants around to light your fires, and dress you, and bathe you. Not wandering the wood with a killer and a horse, sleeping on the ground and eating old bread."

They'd kill me, and you. If I stayed there any longer, I'd be dead, she thought. "I don't see a killer, I see a good knight." She whispered.

"Quit living in your songs, little bird." He replied, tearing apart the smoked meat in his hands. "There aren't any good knights. I'm not even a fucking knight, and don't you dare call me ser."

"Then a good man." She replied, her voice a little stronger. "You protected me, tried to keep me safe."

"Yes," He rasped. "And failed at every bloody turn. I let them beat you in front of court."

"You clothed me afterward."

"Aye I gave you that pretty cloak, but I didn't stop them, did I?" He roared, sending her back away from the fire. Suddenly, she was cold beneath the shade of the wood, the heat from the fire gone. "I let them beat you bloody, didn't raise a damn hand to stop them! And you just chirped your little songs, not fighting back!" His voice was thick with emotion, and Sansa watched the hunk of cheese in his hand come apart from how tight he was squeezing it.

"Stop it!" She screamed, tears pricking at her eyes. "Stop being so hateful!"

It was silent for a moment, the only sound being Stranger crunching some leaves beneath his hooves. The Hound watched her, and she saw the unburnt side of his face relax slightly. With a sigh, he settled back against the log. "Eat your damn food, then go to sleep."

"I didn't mean-"

"Eat, sleep. We leave in the morning." He grunted, falling silent. She ate, made her water in the woods and came back to the camp. Sandor had kicked dirt over the fire, settling himself down with his back to the mound. He looked at her as she walked back. Sansa settled herself down next to him, feeling the heat from the fire and his body. He was still in his mail, his plate stacked by his side. When she lay down he merely grunted, but threw an arm around her and crushed her close. She was tempted to tell him that he was hurting her, that he was too strong, but something stopped her. He had pressed his face down to the top of her head, and she could feel his breath.

Usually, his breath was ragged. He coughed, wheezed and rasped. But now, his breath was calm. He seemed to breathe like any other man would, evenly in and out, calm. She smiled to herself, happy even if he couldn't see it.


	4. Joffrey I

King Joffrey, the first of his name, lounged against the back of the Iron Throne. The days after the Battle of Blackwater Bay had been filled with people coming to pay tribute to the king who had protected them, finalizing the agreement with the Tyrells, and dealing with deserters. That had to his favorite part of the day. Ilyn Payne had been busy, removing the heads of both Lannister and Baratheon men alike.

Traitors all deserved to die.

Oh, sometimes he wouldn't just let them die quickly. One of the archers from the walls had refused to shoot, vomiting as he watched the men fight. Joffrey had ordered him tied to a stake, and his comrades to shoot him full of arrows. He had enjoyed watching the man cry, begging his friends to remember him. Some had turned their heads away, but none had stopped the flight of arrows. Joff had smirked as he saw their tears, even as the blood ran from their friend.

Weak, he thought, all these men are weak. You have to be strong, there's no room for weakness in Westeros. And being strong means showing people your strength. So when traitors were killed, their heads placed on spikes, he reminded himself that he was being strong. He didn't know that the smallfolk whispered against him in the winesinks. He didn't know that the people chafed under his rule and that it was only the threat of his guards that averted it.

"Your Grace, this one has word of the Hound." Ser Meryn said, throwing a peasant to the ground.

The man cowered beneath his gaze. "Your Grace, congratulations on your victory."

"Hmph." Joffrey snorted. "You saw him?"

"Yes, Your Grace. He rode out past me, the girl in front of him."

"Where did he go?"

"I-I don't know Your Grace. He didn't stop to speak, but none of us could speak that night."

"You let him get away?" Joffrey stood from the Throne. "You didn't stop a traitor? A deserter?"

"There was nothing I could do." The man quailed, prostrating himself. "He rode past, and was gone."

"Ser Ilyn!" Joff barked. "Remove his tongue, if he didn't think to call out against a traitor then he doesn't deserve it." He smiled as the man quivered, blood draining from his face as two members of the Kingsguard grabbed his arms. The court gasped as Ilyn Payne heated a dagger over a brazier, then as he plunged the blade into the man's mouth. The man screamed the last sound he'd ever make, a sound of pain and one that drew pity from most of the court.

Not Joffrey.

He instead watched with glee as the man was carried away, the little bit of muscle that had been his tongue in Ser Ilyn's hands. Mother always said people who didn't stand up for the crown deserved what they got. He stood from the Throne, dismissing court for the day. He watched the ladies file out, Margaery coming up to him. She smiled, and he noted how her dress left very little to the imagination. "That was well done, Your Grace."

"Merely dispensing some justice." Joffrey waved a hand. "It needed to happen."

Margaery took his arm, and they walked. Two of the Kingsguard walked behind them. "That it did. What are you going to do of the Stark girl, though?"

Joffrey's lips tightened. "Bring her back, give her to the guards, then take her head. First I'll make her watch as I take the Hound's head, she ought to enjoy that." He frowned, thinking. He used to protect me. My loyal dog. And then he turned tail.

"It might be wise to show mercy." Margaery replied. "In this case at least. The Starks wouldn't appreciate your justice."

Joffrey turned, angry. "What does a woman know of politics? Go back to your rooms, your brother. Leave me."

Margaery just smiled. "By your leave, Your Grace." Joffrey felt a sour feeling latch onto his stomach. He had already ordered a contingent of guards out to find the Hound and Stark girl. Mother didn't know, there were some things that he just didn't tell her. Like how he sometimes watched Margaery walk in the gardens, and how she sometimes sat at the fountain and dripped water over herself. He turned, angrily walking down the hall. It would be hard to send a raven to the guards, changing their orders.

So be it. Mercy was for the weak. There's was only one solution for a mad dog.

Kill it.


	5. Sandor II

Sandor's dreams were rarely happy. Mostly, they were filled with fire, flames and Gregor. Him killing Gregor, him stabbing Gregor in the belly, him holding Gregor's head to the fire and taking his place. Ser Sandor Clegane, the man who beat down his violent brother, saved his sister, and made the name Clegane great. This night though, there was smoke. The figures flickered around the edges of his dream. He could make out a few faces, the butcher boy from the Kingsroad, men from the bread riots, men who he had killed but forgotten their faces. They danced around him, laughing, pointing.

He drew his sword, yelling. He cut through the smoke, cursing as it reformed. The figures found it hilarious, taunting him. He wanted to kill, he wanted blood and death and the satisfaction that came from taking life away. He wanted blood on his sword, for the figures to stand and face him. But something else came out of the smoke. Not blood, not death for him or the figures, but song.

"Gentle mother, font of mercy  
Save out sons from war, we pray  
Stay the swords and stay the arrows  
Let them know a better day"

This wasn't right. There wasn't supposed to be singing. This was a war, him versus the smoke. The figures stilled their dance, looking at the one who had appeared. Her voice was smooth as silk, flowing from word to word. She curtseyed to the figures, raising her voice. He could see the figures smile, fading slightly.

"Gentle mother, font of mercy  
Help out daughter through this fray  
Soothe the wrath and tame the fury  
Teach us all a kinder way"

The smoke vanished, and he could finally see her. The grey silk dress clung to her, her auburn hair shining copper in the light that seemed to emanate from her figure. She smiled when she saw him. She took his hand in one of her, trailing her fingers over the scars on the side of his face. He shivered, unsure if it was pain or pleasure that he drew from her touch. She leaned up, her lips grazing his ear.

"Teach us all a kinder way"

He sighed, but the moment he closed his eyes he knew something was wrong. The smoke was back, gathering itself into a giant figure. He pulled the little bird close, drawing his sword. But it burnt in his hands, clattering to the floor. Was there a floor? He didn't know, but then there was fire. Fire leaping around the pair, surrounding them. Red, orange, yellow and green. He wanted to bat at the fire, scream that it wasn't going to get the little bird. He wanted to take her out of the flames, but she clung to him as the flames lit up the figure, smoke swirling around him. Gregor smiled, drew a blade that was made from fire, and lunged.

"Sansa." He gasped, grabbing for his sword. Where was she? She wasn't in his arms, and he scrambled to his feet. The little bird was kneeling by a crackling fire, toasting a bit of bread and meat on a pair of cleaned sticks. She smiled at him, and he felt himself freeze.

"I thought you might want some warm food." Her voice was sweet, and she held out one of the sticks.

He grunted his thanks, inhaling his food. "We must be getting close." He swallowed the last bit of bread, reaching for a skin of wine. It was almost empty, and in short moment it was. "Trees are thinning a bit." He nodded to the fire. "Looks like you got the hang of the flint."

The little bird blushed slightly. "It took awhile, but it caught eventually." He watched as she ate, tearing the bread into tiny pieces. He wrinkled his nose. It was getting stale, and they weren't even out of the wood yet. Have to find a place, a village or an inn or something. The food was eaten, the fire stamped out, Stranger saddled, and they were off again. When they reached the end of the wood, the little bird smiled.

"It's beautiful." She whispered. After the wooded darkness they had been traveling through, it was. The fertile meadows of the Reach began after the trees ended. Rolling hills, covered in grass and blooming wildflowers stretched away to the horizon. He felt himself smile a bit. She always talked about seeing the flowers of Highgarden, even when she lay on that bed, at the end. "Don't you think so?"

Sandor shook the old thoughts out his head. "The hills will take time off, won't be able to get as far as quick. I'd say we should find the Roseroad, but not so close to King's Landing. Road's probably crawling with Gold Cloaks."

"Can't you ever say anything nice?"

"When we're safe, maybe." He grunted, nudging Stranger up to a lope. The courser took off, flying through the flowers and hills, a dark shadow amid bright petals. When he slowed the horse down to a walk, the little bird looked around, smiling. When he got down to lead the horse, she followed him. He watched as she walked beside him, picking flowers and tucking them into the makeshift braid she had made. Blue, red, yellow, they all looked wonderful, a patchwork quilt of colors that marched off to the end of his vision. Even the flowers of the Reach can't outshine her. He felt a little smirk rising as he watched her.

"How far until the Blue Byrn?" She asked as they descended one hill, climbing another.

"Could be a day, could be two." He rasped in reply. "Won't be lacking for food, that's for sure."

"Really?" She brightened immediately. "Not that I don't appreciate the cheese and bread, of course."

"It's alright little bird." He snorted. "Travel rations get boring quick." He stopped their walk, jerking Stranger to a halt. He grabbed the stem of a plant he recognized, pulling hard. He heard roots tear, and finally it came up. A wild onion dangled from his hands, and he pulled up a couple more for good measure. The little bird watched as he pulled up a few of the flowers, explaining that there were tubers underneath.

"I didn't know you knew so much." She said as he packed away the food, after knocking the dirt from it.

He tightened the sack, tying it shut. "War gives you tough beef and stale bread, you'll look for anything to lighten it up." He shrugged. "On some campaign I was on there were a few woodsmen in the group. Showed us a couple of tricks, and we saved their hides on the field." She laughed at that, and when he turned he was just about to grab her waist and lift her up when he saw a dark shape on the ground in front of them. He hadn't seen it before, it must have crawled up from the bottom of the hill.

"Please." It gasped. "Help."


	6. The Captain of the Guard I

Gerwyn Mytell sat in his barracks, sharpening his blade. It was a good blade, and had served him well over the years. The crown engraved near the handle marked it as being made in King's Landing, some smith on the Street of Steel had delivered it in an order to the Red Keep. It served its purpose. Let those highborns keep their Valyrian, he thought, this has served me well through the years. Through riots and peacetime the blade had been by his side. When he had been promoted to a captain, they offered him a new blade, gold all wrapped around the handle. He had refused, keeping his own. He looked up from his work as his door banged open.

He scrambled to his feet. "Lord Baelish." He nodded to the lithe man who had entered. Petyr Baelish was no doubt older than him, but much more well kept. Gerwyn scratched at the beard he had a fondness for, it spilled down to cover his throat unlike Littlefinger's small pointed scrap. Where Baelish was small, he was large. his own men called him Gerwyn the Giant, in affection if they were training, spiteful if they were drunk.

"Captain Mytell." The little man replied. "I trust you've been keeping well."

"Yes, m'lord." Gerwyn bobbed his head. "The city is well guarded, but we still have our duties. Just two days ago I had to haul a drunkard out of the Great Sept." Gerwyn smiled at the memory. The man squalled the whole time and the High Septon had followed him out, unsure if to curse the man or bless him. Considering the man had almost pissed on the statue of the Father, Gerwyn would have cursed him.

"Duties." Baelish mused. "Are in interesting thing. You see, duties change more often than they stay the same." He cocked his head. "But do you perform your old duties or the new ones? And what comes before your duty? Family? Honor?"

"I do as I'm told, m'lord." Gerwyn shook his head. "That's all I can do."

"No, this is what you can do. First light tomorrow, take ten of your men and ride out." Baelish turned, jabbing a finger up at him. "Follow the roseroad, through the kingswood. Find the Stark girl and bring her back to me."

"Not to King Joffrey, m'lord? Heard he's offering a purse of gold dragons for her."

"I'll give you more."

"And why the roseroad? Wouldn't she be headed north to meet up with her brother?"

Baelish shook his head. "I don't think Clegane would take her there." He cast his head around, before leaning forward. "I think the Tyrells offered him gold, that they want to marry the girl off to one of their family. Unite the Reach and the North, and the lion might just fall."

"I'll find her, m'lord." Gerwyn promised him, and Littlefinger nodded before leaving. Gerwyn watched him leave, unsure of what he was thinking. It was well known that the man rarely let anyone else know his thoughts, and Gerwyn doubted the Tyrell story. In fact, he doubted that the Hound went south at all. He would have gone north, got behind the Stark boy's lines, then caught up with the main party. The Young Wolf would no doubt reward him more than those flowery Tyrells, but what did he know? He was just a city guardsman, and Baelish the master of coin.

The next morning he sat on his blood bay mare, watching his men gather before the Lion Gate. He had picked some of his finest, good friends with strong arms. He watched as two men in crimson cloaks came down the street. He saw an uneasy murmur go through his men, unsure of the Lannister House Guard. Two horses trailed behind them, packed for a journey. One of them held out a scroll to Gerwyn, sealed with golden wax.

"The King's word, ordering any to grant you their aid." The man grunted from behind his helm. Gerwyn tucked it away in a saddle bag. They set out, horses sending up plumes of dirt from the road as they rode to the kingswood. He watched the Lannister men ride ahead of the group, their horses tossing their heads as they steered them into the wood. Gerwyn leaned down and patted his mare. Sometimes, when the wind blew right, the horses would snort with fear from their stables. A man might not be able to smell it, but they could smell the bears and boars and other animals that Robert had stocked the wood with.

"Easy girl," he murmured, "We're just hunting a Hound."


	7. Sansa III

Sandor shoved her back, pulling his sword from his scabbard. She watched as the man on the ground tried to claw his way farther up the hill, hacking a great wet cough. His yellow doublet was stained with red, brown hair crusted with blood.

"Who are you?" Sandor growled, reaching down to press his sword to the man's neck.

"I was with Stannis." THe man wheezed. "Then everything started to burn. I got blown off my ship, managed to swim to some shore." He thrust his arm out, unable to crawl farther up. It was burned, fresh red marks shiny against his skin. Part of them were black and flecking off, and they smelled horrible, like rot. Sansa put her hand over her mouth, unwilling to even breathe.

The Hound sheathed his sword, instead drawing a dagger from his belt. "Who won?"

"Lannisters, saw Renly Baratheon himself leading a charge of Tyrell men." The man groan as Sandor flipped him over. "Went through the kingswood, but that damn pig shit the Imp sent at us-can't breathe."

"Look away, little bird." Sandor rasped, "You won't want to see this."

Sansa took a hesitant step forward, the flowers she had been picking still in her hand. Another step followed, and another. Finally she was right by him, kneeling beside the dying man. The man grabbed at her dress, ignoring the mud and grass that marred the hem. "Maiden, Maiden I didn't mean to turn. It was Stannis, the red woman. I'm so sorry." Sansa held his hand, shushing him and uttering calming words. Sandor brought his blade to the man's chest, slipping it between his ribs. The man gasped, his eyes fixing on some far off point. Sandor pulled her hand away from the dead man's.

"He's gone little bird." He murmured, watching as she laid her flowers on the man's chest. It was so different to watch as a man fell into death. When her father had died, she had turned away. "It's time to go."

Sansa looked up. "Can't we bury him?" His face was already draining of color, the burning heart on his chest obscured by blood.

"Take to long." He grunted, leaning down. She watched as he brushed his eyes closed, gentle for once. "Don't have a shovel either."

"He called me the Maiden."

"He was half out of his mind. The rot in his wounds does that, makes a man insane after awhile."

Sandor lifted her up onto Stranger, mounting behind her. She looked over her shoulder. "Why did you do that?"

"What, little bird? Kill him?"

"He was already dying."

He laughed, rasping behind her as he gently moved the horse forward. "He was in pain, half out of his mind. It's better a quick and merciful death than one of long drawn out pain. That's what Gregor loves."

"You hate him don't you?"

"The septons say a kinslayer is the lowest of the low." He grunted, speeding the horse up. "But Gregor deserves it." Sansa closed her eyes, remembering the angry man that had knocked the Knight of the Flowers off his horse with a sword. Rumors had fled to King's Landing, Gregor Clegane ravaging the country side, Gregor Clegane burning houses with children inside, Gregor Clegance raping and murdering through the Riverlands. Sansa wanted to say something to him, to let him know that he shouldn't kill his brother, that he shouldn't become a kinslayer, but she knew in her heart that she couldn't.

Gregor Clegane deserved to die.

They rode in silence for the rest of the day. Up and down hills, beneath a clear sky that turned to stars. Sansa looked up at them when Sandor stopped for the night. She knew some of them. There was Balerion, his starry wings stretched above him, breathing flames that had turned to stars. Bael the Bard watched, the Rat King beside him. Sandor looked up from taking care of Stranger. "You remember all the stories?"

Sansa tore her eyes from Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies, divided by Balerion's flame. "Our nurse used to tell us about the skies. But she always talked about the giants in the stars, how they'd come down and eat us if we didn't behave."

"And your septa told you all the stories about the fair maids and handsome knights and that everything in the world was perfect." He grunted. It wasn't a question. Sansa finched slightly. She'd been such a fool to think that Joffrey was her golden prince. Arya knew better, and Arya was dead or at least gone from King's Landing. Sandor sat down, passing her bread and cheese. The meat had run out, and they were down to the last bit of bread and cheese. Sooner or later they'd have to visit some village and buy supplies. She didn't know what they would do then.

Sandor spoke again. "My father used to take me up on the walls of Clegance Keep, and he said up there were the Cleganes of the past, the kennelmasters and their loyal hounds. The three that had died so that fat Tytos would live watched over our house." He pointed to a cluster of stars, and if Sansa let herself wonder she could see three dogs. "Now my fahter's up there, and Gregor sleeps in his bed."

Sansa reached a hand over, patting his arm. "My father told me the old Kings of Winter and Kings in the North were up there, and now he's gone."

"Maybe they're both watching us, wondering what the fuck we're doing." Sandor chuckled. He looked up at the stars. "You could send us some more food! A featherbed wouldn't be so hard, would it?"

She giggled at that. "And lemoncakes! With sugar, just like I love them!" She sobered slightly. "And Bran, and Rickon. Mother and Arya. Can you send them back?"

"Little bird, there are some things even gods can't do."

"But why can't we go to them?"

"It's better to be safe, than dead." Sandor said, pulling a skin of wine over. "Your brother's fighting a war. And Winterfell's gone."

Sansa dropped her bread. Her hand began to shake, eyes fogging with tears. "What?"

"That squid you kept in your castle came back, put the castle to the torch and killed everyone inside." Sandor moved over, sitting next to her. "You weren't told?" She shook her head, already crying. Bran, silly little Bran who liked to climb and had been confined to his bed, dead. And Rickon, so new to life and he had already left it. "That brat King got the raven before the battle, I thought he would have told you."

She wasn't sure how long she cried, but Sandor held her throughout. When she fell asleep, it was in his arms and exhausted from the day and the news.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please comment!


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